My Sherlock
by elfmaiden4legs
Summary: A series of character explorations examining what Sherlock means to those closest to him - including Sherlock's mother, Mycroft, Young Watson, and Mary! I'm not including John in this one because we all already know what he thinks of Sherlock!
1. My Boy Sherlock

**My Boy Sherlock**

You were three when we first realised there was something wrong… you'd always been a quiet and unsocial child, always preferring your own company to that of your brother.

You would never play, but sat in the corner of the nursery for hours on end… starring… unmoving… thinking. It used to drive me to despair, trying to figure out what was going on in that mind of yours.

My little boy…

My boy Sherlock…

I'd have given up anything to keep you safe, both you and your brother Mycroft. But the hardest part of being a mother is coming to the realisation that you can't protect your children forever… eventually there comes a time when you just have to let go and hope for the best… at least shut away in your own little world you were safe for the duration of childhood tranquilities, and the innocence of dreams.

When you started school… that marked both the beginning and the end… the other children didn't understand your genius, and so you were always such a lonely child, my baby boy… but you never seemed to notice, being alone never seemed to bother you.

You never spoke, and so took your lessons in silence, reluctantly memorising your letters and numbers just to please your long suffering teachers, who pushed you tirelessly for hours to try to get you to conform.

Still, you never did your homework.

You never socialised with the other children.

You never uttered a word, except to scowl angrily, and tell anyone to 'go away' if they ever dared to disrupt your trail of thought.

There was always something seemingly far more intriguing to occupy your mind… and you used to have this remarkable knack of seeing things which you couldn't possibly have known, or which couldn't really have been there… but somehow they always were, it just took my baby boy to find them.

You would find interest in the most unseemly of things.

Autism they called it, of a high functioning sort, but even so we never knew if you were ever going to be able to read and write… and our whole world fell apart on the day of your diagnosis.

Of course we were then to find out that it wasn't that you weren't capable of achieving everything which your classmates set out to do, but instead that you chose to disregard them as unimportant in the whole scheme of things… you were destined for better things.

Whilst they were busy whittling their young lives away, learning letters, and numbers, and arithmetic – reeling off academic technicalities like tiny, mindless machines, you were watching, waiting, biding your time, until the moment was right to prove your brilliance.

You were seven when you stormed into my bedroom, early one Saturday morning, Agatha Christie book in hand, and raving about the inconsistencies in the plot – of how easy it had been to figure out.

Apparently you'd been up all night reading… and I realised then that you were special… my life would never be quite the same again.

For I no longer feared for your future, after that day.

I no longer lay awake worrying all night that you weren't meeting your attainment grades, or on a par with the rest of the children in your class.

One way or another I knew you'd be alright.

You'd prove them all wrong in the end.

My boy Sherlock.


	2. My Brother Sherlock

**My Brother Sherlock**

Growing up Sherlock was always a little different from the other children his age. I suppose we both were, but my little brother always seemed to be more profoundly affected by the condition which afflicted us both – they called it high functioning autism.

It couldn't have been easy for mother, having to cope with two young boys who found the world in which they lived a confusing and often frightening place, and a husband who was never there. It wasn't father's fault – it wasn't that he didn't love us, or didn't care – but he had a job to do, and it took him away from home so much of the time. I sort comfort and reassurance in routine, and with the help of a strict and regimented schedule managed to adopt something of a normal life – unfortunately Sherlock could not.

Uncle was a brute. He hated difference, and what he saw as weakness. He could never accept the fact that his two nephews had been born with what he saw as a disability, and unfortunately Sherlock bore the brunt of his rage. If Sherlock grew frustrated he would scream and shout, and our uncle would lock him in his room. If Sherlock cried then our uncle would beat him until he stopped – until Sherlock learnt not to, and he didn't cry anymore.

My brother used to be a loving and affectionate child, although he was very much locked within his own little world he would cling to our mother's legs and throw his small arms around her neck. He never said 'I love you', but the signs of the love he felt but never knew quite how to express were always there.

He changed after our uncle got to work on him. First he became nervous and withdrawn, and then he became cold and distant. He was never intentionally hurtful, but he was never openly affectionate again. It broke our mother's heart.

My little brother has always been highly intelligent. Despite the autism which made the development of social skills, and his integration into social situations very difficult for him, his intellectual ability always seemed to have been relatively unimpaired. He was awkward with his teachers, and often refused to do his lessons – but at home he began to dedicate more and more time to puzzle books and mysteries, and by the time he turned five he'd already outgrown many of the books which would have stumped even the most ardent of puzzle solver. By the time of his tenth birthday he'd decided that he was going to become a detective – although he had no desire to affiliate himself with the police. He knew his mind was superior, and he had no time for people.

I never really worked to try and repair our strained relationship – something which I will always regret. It was hard enough for me to try and build the bridges I needed, let alone with someone who was so cold and distant, and as my position rose in the government it was easier to throw myself into work. I've never been able to forgive myself for the fact that being the eldest I could have done more to protect him from our uncle's beatings, but I too was scared and didn't dare incur the wrath of his fury.

Meanwhile Sherlock went to college, and after he graduated started making a name for himself as a private detective.

I did my best to keep an eye on him, but my little brother wasn't very appreciative of my efforts – he didn't like the thought of my intrusion into his world, and it wasn't until John came into his life that I felt I could finally relax in the knowledge that he would finally be safe and properly looked after. It reassured me to know that there was now someone in his life to remind him to eat and to sleep when he was otherwise preoccupied with a case, and through John I hoped that he might slowly start to gain some understanding of the wider world.

My brother you see is not a machine as so many people think. He has a brilliant mind, but he is also a human being – as are we all. Gifted as he is this doesn't make him inhuman – he still bleeds if you cut him, and contrary to what people may believe he is capable of emotion.

I am proud of my brother, despite his hostilities towards me, and his reluctance to let me into his world – which I cannot entirely blame him for. I am proud of what he has achieved, and built up for himself, all off his own back, for I know exactly what he has had to overcome in his lifetime in order to make any of this a possibility.

Words cannot express how pleased I am for him that he has also finally found a friend.

He is, and after all will always be, my baby brother.

My brother – Sherlock Holmes.


	3. My Godfather Sherlock

**My Godfather Sherlock**

My Godfather Sherlock is a little strange – not like mummy and daddy. He doesn't say much when he visits me – daddy says that 'Uncle' Sherlock doesn't understand children, so doesn't always know how to react when I ask him to sing me a nursery rhyme – I don't think he knows any – or bounce me on his knee in the way 'Nanny' Hudson does. She's not my real nanny, just like 'Uncle' Sherlock isn't my real uncle, but daddy says that she's as close to a real nanny as I'm ever going to have.

I think 'Uncle' Sherlock gets a bit scared sometimes, and that's why he doesn't play with me in the way other adults do – but that's OK.

He's a detective. He works with the police. Daddy writes all about all the adventures they've been on together in his blog, and sometimes 'Uncle' Sherlock reads them to me – I think he's very smart! He's a lot more fun than Auntie Harry.

She is my real Auntie, but she always smells funny when she comes to see me – which thankfully isn't very often. She took me to a place called a pub once, which was full of people who smelt funny, just like her, and mummy won't let her take me out anymore.

'Uncle' Sherlock takes me to the police station sometimes to see 'Uncle' Greg and Mr Anderson, and to the museum, and one day he took me to something called a 'crime-scene'. 'Uncle' Greg and Mr Anderson were there too, and a funny man lying on the floor with a coat over his head. I think it must be some kind of silly game that adults play because 'Uncle' Greg told him I shouldn't have been there, and daddy got cross, but then mummy asked 'Uncle' Sherlock to stay for tea.

He said he was sorry, and that he didn't know I shouldn't have been there, and then daddy smiled at him and now everything is alright. Daddy is a doctor, and sometimes I hear him say to mummy that he thinks 'Uncle' Sherlock has something called ass-burgers syndrome. Apparently he's not very good at looking after himself, and mummy and daddy have to keep an eye on him. Mummy is a nurse and she takes me to see 'Uncle' Sherlock when daddy can't.

I like 'Uncle' Sherlock's flat. It's always full of funny things – he even has a skull. Mummy says that daddy used to live there too when they first met. I think it must be pretty amazing to live with your best friend. I hope I find a best friend too one day – but mummy says that daddy's and 'Uncle' Sherlock's friendship is special and that you could travel the world and not find another like it.

Daddy gets really worried when 'Uncle' Sherlock ends up in the hospital – he caught something called a lung infection once which made it hard for him to breathe, so he needed machines to do it for him. Apparently the doctors gave him some medicine to help him sleep, and I wasn't allowed to see him. Daddy was cross because he said 'Uncle' Sherlock hadn't been sleeping and eating properly – but when he woke up they took me to see him.

I drew him a picture – which made him smile. I like drawing.

I think it must be very lonely for him on his own in that flat sometimes. I have mummy and daddy, but 'Uncle' Sherlock doesn't have anyone now that daddy doesn't live there anymore.

Sometimes when mummy takes me to see 'Uncle' Sherlock and he hasn't been feeling very well she ends up bringing him back to stay with us. I like it when 'Uncle' Sherlock comes to stay, but when he does a funny man always comes to visit daddy too. He's really tall, and really thin, and always looks very stern. He smiled at me once – but I'm still not sure I like him. Daddy says that he's 'Uncle' Sherlock's brother, and he works for something called the government. He's called Mycroft – which I think is a really silly name. It made me laugh.

Mummy asked me if I would like a little brother or sister too one day – I said yes, but only if I could have one like 'Uncle' Sherlock.

I'm glad that he's my Godfather. I don't care if 'Uncle' Sherlock isn't my real uncle – I couldn't love him more even if he was.


	4. The Best Man, The Most Human Human Being

**The Best Man, The Most Human Human Being I Have Ever Known**

I never thought I'd get to meet Sherlock - he'd already been gone a year by the time I met John - but by the time I finally did I already felt as though I'd known him for at least as long as the man I now feel blessed to call 'husband'. It didn't take me long to realise that they came as a pair - alive or dead.

John spoke of him often - sometimes with massive amounts of affection, and sometimes with hurt and even anger in his voice. Sometimes he'd cry, and when he did I'd be there to pick up the pieces - other times we'd stay up until the early hours of the morning reminiscing about the good times, a case, or laughing about something totally inappropriate Sherlock had once said or done. John seemed to have no end of stories to tell - some of them sad, some of them amusing, and some of them happy - but when it came to that final evening they'd spent together he always said very little. The pain of that particular memory was just too much.

I always wondered in those early days what could have possibly driven such an evidently great man to take his own life in the way he did. He had a good job with an international reputation in his field, a nice flat in a respectable part of London and a handful of loyal friends. Not only that, but what if he'd failed? What if his attempt hadn't succeeded? Any possible head injury could have resulted in the loss of his most singular gifts forever. Why would he have risked all that? He didn't seem to me like the sort of man who would end it all simply because of a few naive people who doubted his ability to do what he claimed - no matter how frequently and viciously they voiced their opinions. But I guess none of us can ever know what is going on in another persons mind. We all have our secrets, and when John told me about Donovan and Anderson, about their relentless bullying and persecution of him, and of how they hounded him throughout the last few weeks of his life I began to understand why Sherlock might have seen no other way out.

I wanted John to feel as though he could talk about him though. He was a part of his life and I didn't want him to shut Sherlock away just because he wasn't around anymore. It was hard at first, John would start telling me something and then suddenly stop - something would remind him of the time they'd spent together, something somebody said, something he saw, or even a particular sound or smell - but I finally managed to convince him that I didn't mind, I wanted to get to know Sherlock Holmes through his eyes, and so finally bit by bit he began to tell me about him. He told me about what he'd looked like, what he'd sounded like, the things he'd said, all the things he'd done, and the two things about him which made me smile the most the first time I heard them - of how much he hated his trade-mark deerstalker hat or didn't know that the earth travelled around the sun - and as the months went by I too grew to love him. So many times I stood beside John, holding his hand at Sherlock's graveside as he wept, and sometimes I wept myself too. I felt as though I'd been deprived of the opportunity of meeting a truly great man, and I fell in love with the picture he painted of his best friend.

The night he came back from the dead - despite what I now know to be his characteristically poor timing - I can't even say that I was particularly surprised. If anyone was ever capable of successfully faking their own death I believed it would be Sherlock Holmes, but he wasn't the same man John had described to me.

Of course John couldn't see it, or at least if he could it didn't show - he was too angry, and too upset - but I observed a pain in Sherlock's eyes immediately which was only subtly betrayed in his voice. The man who came back was tormented, troubled by physical pain, and emotional pain, and drowning in fear. Haunted by something too traumatic to even begin to put into words I still don't think John knows the true extent of just how much his friend suffered throughout the two years he was away, and I know that Sherlock's pride would never let him tell of it.

I suspect that the Sherlock I have since come to know is probably a little different to John's. I see the pained side, a very human side.

His mind is indeed as brilliant as John ever described, but his heart is fragile, and just because he doesn't let anyone see his vulnerability that doesn't mean that he's immune to all the usual range of human emotions. He doesn't find it easy to admit when he needs help, nor to show what he's feeling. He is in fact so self destructive that he is a constant source of worry to me. I constantly wonder whether we'll get a phone call in the middle of the night to say that he's suffered another overdose or been attacked whilst working on a case, and even when he's ill he doesn't take time off to take proper care of himself. On more than one occasion John and I have gone round to find him suffering from some sort of ailment in silence, and even on one occasion early stage pneumonia. Lestrade called John one evening to let him know that Sherlock had taken a tumble whilst apprehending a suspect in a grand theft case they'd both been working on, and when he visited him the next morning it was to find him nursing a severely swollen, badly bruised wrist which later turned out to be broken, along with three cracked ribs.

If we don't hear from him now at least once a week one of us will make sure to go around and check on him - just to make sure that he's eating properly, and sleeping. Mrs Hudson does what she can for him too, and keeps us informed - despite her constant insistence that she's 'not his housekeeper' she is indeed the perfect spy.

Sherlock really is very dear to me. Even after I shot him he forgave me, he risked his life to save me, and he convinced John to give me a second chance. Some may construe the fact that he continued to trust me as naivety on his part, but the truth of the matter was that Sherlock saw through my past, he saw through what I was and what I had done, and he just saw me for me. He saw the woman I had always wanted to be. It would break my heart if anything ever happened to him. It was more than I could have hoped for, and more than I know I ever deserved.

Some ignorant people have labeled him a psychopath, Sherlock himself would say he's a sociopath, and John has often referred to his little quirks as 'his asbergers'. I think John is probably right - but whatever label you want to place upon him it really doesn't matter. People don't tend to like mysteries, they are frightened and frustrated by what they don't understand - and Sherlock Holmes is an enigma. He has the most brilliant mind of any man I have ever met. His skill far surpasses anything I have ever seen done before, but he has been alone for so much of his life that even now he still struggles with the concept of emotion. Feelings are as much a mystery to him as he is to other people. He finds it difficult to let anyone get close enough to let them in. He doesn't like to let emotion cloud his judgment, but it doesn't pay to be too distant. People don't always understand, and keeping ones distance doesn't always protect them from pain. There is a safety to be found in friends and loved ones, and in keeping them close by.

I still remember what it felt like to be lonely and misunderstood, and the more people push you away the more you begin to doubt your own worth as a human being. You begin to live on the fringes of society, and become cold in order to protect yourself. You don't even realise it's happening until it's too late, and it can take a very particular type of person to open your eyes to the world around you again - and perhaps more importantly, to the people.

Thats one thing both Sherlock and I have in common - we both found John when we needed him the most - but relationships of any kind need to be worked at - it's how I know that Sherlock Holmes isn't at all as cold as people think. He had to work at his relationship with John, in his own unique way.

Sherlock is my friend - my friend and my family - but he is also so much more than that. He is in fact, in the words of my husband, the best man, and the most human human being I have ever known, and - no matter what he may say or do - no one will ever convince me otherwise.


End file.
